


Eight Days A Week

by round_robin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Gen, Hamish Watson-Holmes - Freeform, John gets kidnapped, not series two compatible
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-25
Updated: 2012-04-25
Packaged: 2017-11-04 07:50:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/391483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/round_robin/pseuds/round_robin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When John gets kidnapped, it's almost all Sherlock can do to keep things together. For himself, and their son.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eight Days A Week

**Author's Note:**

> I've been putting off doing a Hamish fic for a while, because I wasn't sure if I'd get it right. Then, I had the idea for Lestrade putting Sherlock in his place over something, and it all just fell together. I called it Gen because it's not the romantic aspect of Sherlock and John's relationship that's important here, it's their family relationship. Yes, John does get kidnapped, but it's much fluffier than it sounds, so don't worry.
> 
> Not betaed or Brit-picked, so all mistakes are mine. See a typo? Include it along with your comment and I'll be sure to fix it. :)

**1.**

 

“Sweetheart?” The low whisper in his ear started to stir Hamish from sleep, but not completely. All he knew was that one of his fathers was whispering softly while pulling him from bed.

Already wrapped in a blanket, Hamish nuzzled the shoulder in front of him. “Daddy?” He asked.

“Daddy’s not here right now,” ah, Father then. Hamish could hear it now. Well, he guessed he could feel it. The deep baritone rumble that had ushered him into sleep so many times. Yes, this was definitely his father’s voice.

Even at the tender age of six, Hamish already knew what this meant. One parent or another—sometimes even Uncle Greg or Uncle Mycroft—would rouse him in the middle of the night, pull him into their arms and whisk him off to Holmes Manor for the safety of them all. This meant one of three things had happened: either one of his fathers was in hospital, or one was away on a dangerous mission, or they’d been kidnapped. On several occasions, John had bemoaned the fact that Hamish had to suffer through this kind of thing so much. But Sherlock couldn’t stop his whirlwind life completely, and John couldn’t stop chasing after him.

Though, Hamish had to admit that this night was strange, as it was usually his dad pulling him from bed to go see Father in hospital. John was the more careful of the pair, always mindful that they had a child at home.

Tucked inside Father’s coat, Hamish drifted off again to the sound of the heart beating right under his ear. It was winter, and Sherlock had barely had the thought to wrap Hamish in a blanket, such was his distress. He only hoped he could get his son to safety before going after the soon to be dead men that took John.

When the car arrived at Holmes Manor—Mycroft’s home—Lestrade met them at the door. “Sherlock,” he sighed when he saw Hamish wrapped in nothing but a blanket and Sherlock’s coat. “You can’t bring a six-year-old out into the middle of a winter’s night with no jacket. He’ll freeze.”

“Mycroft has clothing enough for him here,” Sherlock said shortly, walking past Greg into the warm foyer. “Besides, my body heat seems to have functioned well. I’d like to get him into bed now.”

Greg nodded and let them go, turning to go down to the study where a mini command centre was already set up. When it came to any attempts on the Holmes family, Mycroft’s house was always the rallying point. Even for the Yard.

Sherlock carried Hamish upstairs to the third floor where all the bedrooms were. But he didn’t walk towards his old nursery, which was basically Hamish’s room when they had need to be in this house, but towards his old adult bedroom. The one he was moved to once his parents had deemed he’d “out grown” the nursery. Sherlock remembered being very sad about leaving the room that had been his for ten years, but he understood that he couldn’t be a child forever. The new, King-sized bed more than made up for any stress caused by the move.

Whenever he, John and Hamish came to visit (or hold up in the safe house) this was where he and John would sleep. Partly because he didn’t want to leave their son alone, but mostly because Sherlock feared that—tonight of all nights—he would be very aware of the empty John-shaped patch on the bed, he kept Hamish with him. Given the situation, it was understandable that he’d want to keep his son close.

He closed the door behind them and softly laid a still-sleeping Hamish in the centre of the large bed. Still wrapped in his blanket, Sherlock also laid his coat out over him before taking the chair by the window to keep watch. This night might have seen the kidnap of his partner, but Sherlock would be damned if his son was the next target.

 

 

**2.**

 

Bright, morning light met Hamish’s eyes when he opened them. He blinked a few times before sitting up. Father’s coat fell away, but he was still wrapped in his blanket, the one that Aunt Harry had given him. He looked around the familiar room—they were at Uncle Mycroft’s house, which meant possibility one had been eliminated: Dad wasn’t in hospital. Since he wasn’t usually the one to go away on dangerous, secret missions (medical conventions in Dublin were about as exotic as it got) that threw option two out as well, leaving Hamish only one conclusion.

His dad had been kidnapped.

Steeling against any tears, Hamish drew himself up and resolved to find out everything he could. If possible, he wanted to know more than they were willing to tell him. And he was a Holmes, so he could more than manage it.

Father was asleep in the bed beside him, and Hamish wanted to keep it that way. Grabbing onto the coat, he tucked it around Sherlock’s still-clothed body and pressed a small kiss to his forehead. He didn’t sleep too often, and the fact that he was so dead asleep during such a tense time spoke volumes. After just a day, Sherlock was already mentally exhausted with worry.

Right then, Hamish knew that he would have to be strong for his father. All his tears would be saved until Dad was back in their arms.

He was still in his pajamas, but Hamish didn’t care. No one else in the house would either. Right now, he didn’t feel like walking down to the nursery (his room) and fishing for fresh clothes. Instead, he went to the dresser drawer and opened the one that contained a few articles of his dad’s clothing. Grabbing a shirt, he held it tight to his chest and made his way out of the room. He knew he had to be strong, but he wasn’t completely unrealistic. He was six; he could afford to have a crutch to keep his upper lip stiff.

A short way down the hall, Hamish saw Uncle Greg conversing softly with a be-robbed Mycroft. “Uncles?” Hamish said softly, the word half-muffled by John’s t-shirt, which was now pressed against his face.

Both men stopped talking and turned. Tense looks of concentration melted in favor of soft smiles. “Hamish,” Greg whispered, walking down the hall and scooping up the boy. He held Hamish close to his chest and brought him over to Mycroft’s door.

Mycroft smiled down at his nephew, ruffling his hair, fingers lingering on the black curls. So much like his father’s. “You, young man, shouldn’t be walking the halls alone. Not at a time like this.”

“What kind of time is it?” Hamish asked into the shirt. He knew he had to be brave for Father’s sake. But Father wasn’t here right now. Still, he would not let loose the tears that wanted to spill. Not yet.

With a heavy sigh, Greg leaned forward and touched their foreheads together. “Your father took a job for the Royal Family. It was simple, safe, and paid enough for you to get three or four doctorates,” out of the corner of his eye, Hamish saw Mycroft smile grimly. As if the family didn’t already have a school trust for Hamish. But that wasn’t the point.

“It was supposed to be so simple,” Greg sighed. His eyes fell shut, almost like he couldn’t stand to look into the eyes of his best friends’ son and tell him why his fathers manage to get kidnapped on a regular basis. No child should have to live like that, but Hamish always took it in stride. Greg really wished the boy didn’t have so much life experience when it came to these kinds of situations. “And it was. It was over months ago, payment made, everyone safe. Then, the blackmailer found out it was Sherlock on the case, and, he just couldn’t resist taking his revenge.”

“Hamish,” Mycroft said. He could already hear the tears of frustration welling in Lestrade’s voice; best to get Hamish out of there before he had to be strong for all the adults in his life. “Where is your father? Surely, he must be worried about you.”

“He’s asleep.” Lestrade’s eyes flew open at those words. Straightening up, he and Mycroft shared a look over Hamish’s head. Or rather, they _tried_ to. The boy was a Holmes, after all. But he let it go without remark; they all knew what Sherlock being asleep meant. For once, the consulting detective was so far out of his depth, so very powerless that his mind was giving up on trying to work the problem. At least for the moment.

“Well, dear,” they all had different endearments for him. Uncle Mycroft called him dear. “Shouldn’t you be keeping him safe, then?”

“Yes,” Hamish nodded. He could always count on Uncle Mycroft to know his plans and motivations. While all the adults were busy trying to find his dad, it was Hamish’s job to comfort Father, a job he would willingly volunteer for.

A moment passed in relative silence where they all just stood there, Hamish wrapped in Greg’s arms, Mycroft’s hands on both of them, and their foreheads all pressed together. Then, the loud crash of a door being thrown open split the silence.

“Where is my son!” Sherlock shouted. A head of messy, fuzzy curls whipped back and forth, looking down the hallway.

“Here, Sherlock,” Greg called, his grip on Hamish already loosening.

“Hamish!” Sherlock yelled. In three long strides, he was down the hall, pulling the boy from Greg’s arms and cradling him against his chest. “Don’t you leave while I’m sleeping,” he said against curls that were so like his own. “Don’t you dare do that again, Hamish Watson-Holmes!”

“I’m sorry, Father,” the boy whispered into Sherlock’s neck. He knew that he wasn’t being yelled at, this was all just too much right now. He shouldn’t have left like that, not when his father needed him so much.

“It’s alright,” Sherlock seemed to calm down a bit now that his son was back in his sight and his arms. Without a single look at Lestrade or Mycroft, he turned and walked them both back to their family bedroom. Hamish, for his part, pulled Dad’s t-shirt out from under his chin and wrapped it around Father’s shoulders. It still smelled like the man they both missed so much and that calmed Sherlock further.

“I’ll send some breakfast in,” Mycroft said softly. A quick glance at his watch made him amend the statement. “Lunch.”

Sherlock didn’t answer and Mycroft knew he wouldn’t. In fact, he was fully aware that his brother would spend the whole day in the room, clutching his son and trying to figure out how to rescue his partner. Lucky for Sherlock, Mycroft and Lestrade were already working on that front, so there was nothing for the detective to try and solve. Hopefully, they’d have this all worked out before Sherlock broke down completely.

 

 

**3.**

 

A day in bed had never been so exhausting. Hamish spent the whole day trying to keep his father occupied. Although it looked like Sherlock was trying to keep Hamish’s mind off John’s kidnapping, it was really the other way around.

As soon as their lunch arrived—rosemary chicken, green beans and a bowl of strawberries, all prepared in some ridiculously fancy way—Hamish immediately started making towers from the green beans and strawberries. Sherlock picked up the game and offered a few matchsticks from the bedside drawer as buttresses for the outside walls. Then, to make sure Father ate, Hamish turned the game into taking pieces out of the tower while trying to keep it standing. He managed to get eighteen green beans, three strawberries and half a piece of chicken into Sherlock. The chicken was actually his, which Sherlock had cut into six-year-old sized bites, but Hamish made use of pressing the tiny pieces into Father’s mouth. This continued at dinner, when Hamish made a new game called “find the carrot.” If you found the carrot, you got to eat it. Sherlock found all of them, but only ate seven. Good enough for tonight.

Thoroughly worn out from a day of parenting his parent, Hamish all but melted into Sherlock’s lap as he read a very unnecessary bedtime story. Despite the terror and worry he should be feeling, Hamish was beyond exhausted. He had no idea how Dad had done this for the past ten years.

A little after midnight, Hamish’s eyes shot open at the sound of angry voices whispering in the hallway right outside the door. The cracked door. He laid very still in the bed as he listened.

“I’m going to find him,” Sherlock said. Through the thin crack in the door, Hamish could see Uncle Greg standing with his arms across his chest, positively livid with Father. The soft rustling of fabric stopped when Sherlock caught Lestrade’s look. “Don’t give me that,” he snapped. “You and Mycroft are doing things your way, I’ll do things my way. We’ll find him twice as fast if we’re all working at it from different angles.”

“Are you insane?” Greg hissed, his voice low. “Have you finally gone ‘round the twist?”

“This is no time for jokes.” Sherlock said flatly.

“Oh, I’m not joking,” his voice was calm, but his eyes were absolutely burning. Hamish had no doubt that, if Uncle Greg had his way, he would kill Father right now. But then, he’d have to arrest himself, so he probably gave it up as a bad idea. “Because you must be mad to actually suggest what you’re suggesting.”

The movement of Sherlock’s coat stopped; Hamish could practically _hear_ the icy glare he was focusing on Lestrade. “And why is that? Why is wanting to rescue my partner an insane thing for me to do?”

“Because it means you are leaving your son alone.” Greg stepped towards Sherlock so Hamish couldn’t see his face anymore, but he could still hear. “That boy is already missing one parent, and you’re trying to make it two. Where do you get off?”

“He’s my _partner_ , Lestrade,” Sherlock spat. “I’ve as much of a want to find him as you do. More than. And Hamish will be fine. He has you and Mycroft here—”

“Yeah, sure,” Greg cut him off. “Which is why you spent all of today clutching him like he was going to vanish into thin air! Because what happens when you’re off looking for John and you go missing too? You need to think of your family, Sherlock!”

“I am thinking of my family!” Hamish knew by the tone of Father’s voice that he’d be yelling if he could. But neither man wanted to wake him. Well, too late for that. “I need my family whole—John and Hamish with me. And Hamish needs both of his parents!”

“Exactly,” Greg said, his voice much softer now. Even Hamish knew why: because Sherlock had gone and made his point for him. “I know that John is your partner, but take a second to remember that he’s Hamish’s father. Hamish’s _father_ is missing. And you want to go off and leave him as well?” Sherlock had no answer to that, so Greg continued while he could. “He is your son, and that means it’s not all about you anymore. I don’t know why it’s taken you six years to understand this, but sometimes, you need to put aside what you want for what he needs.”

A long pause followed; Hamish could hear the wheels in Father’s head turning. Finally, a soft hiss escaped his lips. “Fuck you, Greg.”

“Hey,” the copper snarled. “It’s your rule: no swearing in front of the boy.”

The shadows of feet under the crack in the door shifted as Sherlock got right in Lestrade’s face. “He’s asleep!” He growled back.

“He’s a Holmes!” Lestrade said. “He’s lying awake listening!”

Even though he wasn’t a genius, Greg Lestrade was an expert at understanding the Holmes family. He and John stood as the lone front against the overwhelming genius that could (and frequently did) get the better of Sherlock and Hamish. Of course he knew Hamish was listening. Now, the question was: why didn’t Sherlock?

Hamish shut his eyes tight and pretended to sleep, but it didn’t stop him from hearing the rest of the conversation.

Just as he’d hoped, Greg’s point defeated Sherlock. He took a deep, shaky breath before speaking again. “Greg,” he whispered. “I don’t know how to do this anymore. I used to be so calm whenever John went missing because I knew it was only my life on the line to get him back. But now…” Sherlock didn’t even need to continue. Lestrade already knew.

“We’ll get him back, that’s our job and we do it well,” Greg whispered. “Your job is to stay with Hamish. He was being the grown up today,” Sherlock didn’t even try to deny it. “But he can’t sustain that. He shouldn’t have to.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said. Without another word, he walked back into the bedroom, shutting the door behind him. Hamish cracked open one eye, just enough to see the shadow of Uncle Greg’s feet walk away from the door, and watch Father pull off his coat and scarf.

Once he was in shirt sleeves, he climbed back into the bed and wrapped his arms around Hamish, John’s t-shirt pressed between them. Though he didn’t want Father to know that he’d heard their conversation (that knowledge was probably a bit too much for him right now) Hamish still needed to say something. He moved one small hand up to stroke Sherlock’s cheek. “They’ll find Daddy,” he whispered. “Uncle Mycroft runs the world. He can find anyone.”

Even in the darkness, Hamish could see his father smiling. Placing a soft kiss on his forehead, Sherlock closed his eyes. “Go to sleep, sweetheart.”

 

 

**4.**

 

Sherlock seemed to have things together the next day. He was no longer relying on Hamish to keep him afloat. He could walk through the house, go down to the dining room for meals instead of barricading them both up in the room, he could even stick his head into the command centre and look at the progress that had been made towards finding John.

But even with all the supposed progress, he still wouldn’t let Hamish out of his sight. For most of the following days, Hamish stayed in Sherlock’s arms. Sometimes balanced on a hip while his other arm cooked or worked on something else, and sometimes wrapped around Sherlock’s back like a baby monkey. That in itself wasn’t strange, as Sherlock and Hamish both had an interest in the living habits of other primates, they’d tried to repeat the way mother chimps carried their young on their backs and found it rather fun.

What was strange was the way Sherlock reacted when anyone else tried to touch Hamish. Their son was the little piece of John that Sherlock had with him during this time, and he would be damned if anyone took that connection away from him.

So no one tried. Sherlock’s state of mind seemed to improve with his proximity to Hamish, so they all let it go and kept up the search so the consulting detective wouldn’t have to.

 

 

**5.**

 

The first four days went by with no word. The second, third and forth days, Sherlock was back to his old self. Hamish finally had room to let out the fear and sorrow over his dad’s situation, and the anxiousness over when it might finally—one way or another—come to an end. Still, he didn’t let himself break down. He stayed strong for his father, just in case.

Well, on the fifth day, just in case arrived in the form of a ransom note.

Lestrade, Mycroft, and half the Yard stood and watched Sherlock stand frozen in the middle of the room, the note resting softly in his hands. Even with all the on-lookers waiting for him to do something—break down, start deducing, emit any signs of life—Sherlock only cared for one of them: Hamish.

The forensics team had already gone over the note, copied down the message, lifted any fingerprints and other traces they could before giving it to Sherlock. Now, Sherlock pulled his eyes away from the paper and handed it down to his son. “What do you think?” He asked quietly.

Without a word, Hamish took the note and ran it through his fingers. Father always said two sets of deductions were better than one, which for some reason excluded Uncle Mycroft’s deductions. Besides Dad, the opinion that Father regarded most highly was Hamish’s. And he had yet to disappoint.

Running his fingers along the paper, Hamish started. “This paper is very acidic. You can practically smell it.” Then, he bent his head forward and did smell it. Sniffing the paper, the ink, the little drop of blood in the corner they were still waiting for tests on. “This isn’t Daddy’s blood,” Hamish announced. “The iron count is much too low.” Being a doctor, John was very good about his nutrition and the nutrition of his family; even Sherlock could be considered a healthy eater now-a-days. “The ink is heavy printing ink, like you’d find in old newspapers and books. You can feel the weight of the lead type.”

Hamish took another moment to turn the note over in his fingers before handing it back to Sherlock. He started his own examinations. “The iron count in the blood is too low, but the other metals pressed into the paper are much too high. This sort of paper is used in a dinosaur of a printing press, the sort used for mass printing checks.” He lifted the paper and held it to the light, the fibers becoming clearer. “A disused factory printer, six tons at least—without the ink. The typical three colors of check ink have all been mixed together. Haphazard maybe, but more likely that the factory has been out of use so long, the ink was just left in the same vat with no more need for it.”

Greg spoke up for the first time. “Printing ink?” He didn’t know whether to address his question to Sherlock or Hamish, so he just settled for looking between them. “It’s hand written. Who would use printing ink to hand write something?”

“Someone who’s squatting in an abandoned print factory, using a fountain pen and decides to fill it with whatever ink is around,” Sherlock said quickly. “Now shut up. Your voice is distracting.” Again, he passed the note back to Hamish.

This kept going for the next few minutes. Hamish would have his turn looking the paper over, and then hand it back to Sherlock. They didn’t really care for the message itself, not for anything other than what the handwriting told them about the kidnapper: sharp consonants, arrogance and the illusion of success in this endeavor.

Ten minutes went by before they agreed the paper had given them all the information they could get. Handing it back to Lestrade, Sherlock and Hamish stood side by side as they solved the case. “This sort of high-acid paper has no longevity, so all archival purposes are out. Most likely, the documents printed with this paper were meant to be impermanent. Bank checks would be my guess.” Sherlock said.

“I read a book last year, about check fraud,” Hamish continued. “The kind of printer that uses that paper hasn’t been used since the fifties. Only a few European countries still have them somewhere—usually in disused print factories in Former East Germany, France, and the Czech Republic.” Their deductions finished, Hamish and his father just stood there, waiting for the others to catch up. Surprisingly enough, it didn’t take long.

Slowly, Mycroft nodded. “Former East, France, and the Czech Republic. Well, that does narrow it down considerably from every dusty, Middle Eastern country that I’ve been checking.” Without another word, Mycroft swept out of the room to start making calls.

Lestrade on the other hand, just smiled. Father and son Holmes, so alike, yet so different, united in finding the one man they love more than anyone else. “Alright, guys!” Lestrade called to the rest of the Yard. “You heard them!” Everyone went into a flurry of movement, making calls, checking maps, and other such helpful things. Greg, however, walked over to Sherlock and Hamish.

With a quick glance of permission up towards Sherlock, he reached down and picked up Hamish. Pressing a quick kiss to his cheek, he whispered into the boy’s ear. “That one’s yours.” He pulled back and pressed another kiss to the other cheek. “And that one’s for your father. Make sure he gets it, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Hamish smiled.

Uncle Greg placed one more kiss on his forehead before passing him over to Sherlock again. One last nod and he was off after Mycroft, wanting to go over specifics.

Hamish wasted no time in passing Greg’s kiss on to his father. “We did very well, Father,” he smiled.

Sherlock smiled back. “ _You_ did very well.”

 

 

**6.**

 

Two hours later, they received word: John was not being held in France.

Sherlock and Hamish had been reading to each other quietly on the couch in the corner of the command centre. That was where the first word of any change in the situation would come first, so that was where they stayed. No one had the heart to throw them out.

When the announcement was made that Mycroft had checked every plausible location in France (and a few implausible ones) that matched the description, Sherlock shared a look with his son. They realized at the same time that being in place to find out first wasn’t always a good thing.

Pulling Hamish into his arms, Sherlock walked out of the command centre and back up to their bedroom.

When they were sure he was gone, Lestrade turned to Mycroft. “Not another word to Sherlock until we’ve found him.”

Mycroft nodded. “Agreed.”

Germany was similarly clear of any abandoned print factories that contained one kidnapped John Watson.

No one told Sherlock or Hamish, but they all suspected that they already knew.

 

 

**7.**

 

Hamish’s eyes opened. He blinked against the soft lighting of the hallway. It took another moment for him to deduce where he was: still in Father’s arms, but they definitely weren’t in their room.

No, Sherlock had pulled them out of bed an hour ago. Knowing they were so close to getting news—one way or another—he found that he couldn’t sleep. So he wandered the halls of Holmes Manor, taking Hamish with him. Holding his son against his chest, Sherlock rubbed the boy’s back and gently swayed as he walked. Though he was six now and this was more behavior one would use to calm an infant, Sherlock found the repetitive movements soothing. Hamish didn’t wake, so obviously it still worked on him.

Now that he knew what was happening, Hamish was happy to fall asleep again. Father seemed to be calming himself, so he wasn’t needed.

Then, Sherlock’s hand stilled against Hamish’s back. He stopped swaying. Stopped walking. Hamish could feel it; like a cold layer of ice had spontaneously formed over his father’s skin. “Father?” He whispered, lifting his head off Sherlock’s shoulder.

Sherlock didn’t answer him, just kept staring down the hall. Hamish pushed himself up so he was sitting in Sherlock’s arms and turned to look as well. Then he froze too.

Dirty, rumpled, and very bruised, John stood at the other end of the hall.

For a long moment, no one moved. Sherlock stood frozen with Hamish still in his arms, and John was swaying unsteadily on exhausted legs. Then, in one loud shriek, everything sprang back to life.

“Daddy!” Hamish shot from Sherlock’s arms like a tiny missile and ran to John. The six-year-old ICBM crashed into him with such force, he almost fell back. But John held his feet. Then he held his son.

As soon as Sherlock saw John holding Hamish, he seemed to come back to life. “You can see him too,” he whispered to himself, and then ran down the hall to join his family.

Though he didn’t knock John over, Sherlock was still a force to be reckoned with. But John had spent the last six years working the delicate balance of attention that his two Holmes needed and by the time Sherlock reached him, he already had his other arm out. With one arm around Hamish, cradling him close to his chest, and the other hand winding its way through Sherlock’s unruly curls, John held his family close.

Both seemed to break down at the same time. A gush of hot, salty tears soaked his neck as Hamish started to cry. His still so tiny shoulders shook as sobs ripped through the little boy. But he didn’t babble incoherence like any other child, because these were not tears of sadness, but relief. Only one word, mumbled over and over into John’s neck, could be heard. “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy…”

On his other side, Sherlock’s long neck was bent so his head was resting on John’s shoulder. With his arms wrapped tightly around his partner’s waist, tears started to leak from Sherlock’s eyes as well. He didn’t make a single sound, though, just stood there, holding to John as John held them both.

They must have made quite a picture. Two men and a child, two of them crying, one barely standing, but somehow able to find the strength for the others. And that was when Sherlock knew.

This could never happen again.

 

 

**8.**

 

Later, much later, Sherlock and John lay on the bed with Hamish asleep between them. It was probably the first good rest he’d had in a week.

Mycroft had allowed John the small concession of seeing his family before anything else, and once that was done, the doctor was set upon by the best medical team Her Majesty’s government could arrange. After only an hour of bandages, sterilizing cuts, and icing bruises, John was starting to look like his old self again.

Mycroft was sure to inform them that it would’ve taken less time if John had let go of Hamish and Sherlock hadn’t insisted on sitting next to them on the couch. Of all people, it was Greg who explained that yes, it would’ve gone faster, but there was also a possibility that it wouldn’t have gone at all. So Mycroft shut up about it and brought food for the starving family. Though Hamish had been doing his best to get Sherlock to eat, there really was nothing like having John back with him to fill up the detective.

After almost twelve hours of tests and checks and blood work, John was finally announced as “sore, but perfectly fine.” The next stop: a bath. Eight days held in a disused print factory on the German-Czech boarder wasn’t exactly the most conducive place when it came to personal hygiene. John was actually surprised Mycroft let him touch any of the furniture in the house, let alone sit on it.

“I can take Hamish,” Lestrade offered. Hamish—who was dead asleep in John’s arms—actually shocked awake at the very mention of being taken away. “You know,” some of the conviction went out of Greg’s voice, but he pressed on. “So you and Sherlock can be alone?”

They both snorted and rolled their eyes. Sherlock shuffled closer to John, and John held tighter to Hamish. “We’re fine,” John said shortly. “Thanks.”

With some bubble bath and a toy boat liberated from the nursery’s bathroom, John and Hamish took turns washing each other’s hair while Sherlock sat perched on the toilet seat, watching over his family. When they were both clean (John needed it more than Hamish, but he’d be damned if he let his son out of his arms) Sherlock wrapped them up in fluffy bathrobes and they all settled down on the large bed. Hamish was asleep in seconds, leaving Sherlock and John to talk.

Everything was quiet for a while as John ran his fingers through Hamish’s damp curls. It was Sherlock who broke the silence. “This can’t happen again.” He whispered.

John didn’t stop moving, just continued to thread his fingers through their son’s hair. “I’m serious,” Sherlock pressed. “This can’t happen again.” A small huff, half laughter, half self-disgust. “I’m actually surprised either of us let it go this long.”

“Sherlock,” John whispered. “This was a rarity. You know that this doesn’t happen very often. And you only take the safe cases—”

“Yes,” Sherlock cut him off. “And this was supposed to be one of the safe cases!” He leaned forward and pressed his forehead against John’s. “You’re supposed to be the safe one—the reliable parent that tells me when I’m going too far. Yet you seem more against quitting than I am.”

At the mention of the word—the very thought of stopping _this_ , the thing that brought them together—a lump rose in John’s throat. Somehow, he managed to swallow it away. “You’re right.” He said finally. “I don’t know how we let it get this far. But what else can we do?

“We can’t leave Baker Street. We can’t take away the only grandchild Mrs. Hudson has ever known,” his hand dipped down to rub over Hamish’s back. Mrs. H wasn’t just a handy last-minute babysitter, she truly cared for Hamish. She doted on him like any granny, and the few times old Mummy Holmes managed a visit, they would abscond with Hamish and spoil “the baby” rotten. John didn’t think she could stand their leaving anymore than they could.

“We won’t have to leave Baker Street,” Sherlock said in that familiar tone, the one that said _I love you John, but you’re still and idiot._ John just didn’t see the accompanying eye roll because his attention was firmly trained on their son, still asleep between them.

“But you’ll still stop consulting?” John asked. “Sherlock, your brain will rot. And the walls will never recover.” Over the years—particularly when Hamish was teething and neither could stand to be away from their suffering son—more of the wallpaper had borne the brunt of Sherlock’s boredom and frustration. With a knife this time, as guns were not things to have near infants.

“No,” Sherlock said. His fingers tangled with John’s as they both rubbed Hamish’s back. “I’ll just have a new rule: if I have to leave the flat to solve the case, I won’t take it.” John shrugged at that; he had seen Sherlock solve quite a number of cases from his armchair. “And if we rent out 221C, I can use it as a lab and solve any historical cases that interest me. Given the limited forensics in their day, the Bow Street Runners must have gotten a lot wrong.”

John snorted a quiet laugh. “And you can be happy with that? Solving cases from the living room? Correcting history from the basement? That will keep you sane?”

“Yes,” Sherlock nodded. “But even if it didn’t, I would still do it.” He leaned forward and rubbed his nose against John’s. Hamish wiggled between them, adjusting to the shrinking space. “When it comes to sacrificing for you and Hamish, I find that it’s never as hard as it first seems.”

A wide smile broke across John’s face. “Oh, Sherlock,” John smiled. “You are a good man. The best man I’ve ever met.”

Sherlock said nothing. Because really, it wasn’t a sacrifice at all. For John and Hamish, it never was.

 

The End

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was supposed to take place over eight days (hence the title) with each section being one day, but it didn't really work out like that. Hope everyone enjoyed!


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